Snippets From the Buffyverse
by effraye
Summary: This is a collection of short one-shots that take place within the Buffyverse, mostly post-Chosen. They are snippets of moments in our Scoobies lives. Characters/POV will vary. Enjoy!
1. Goodbyes & Fire Trucks

**Author's Note: Hey guys! This is a one-shot that explores what might happen if Willow were to become evil again. If you follow the season 8 comics and consider them a true part of the Buffyverse, then you know that this is a possible event. I imagine that if this does happen, Willow would start with the one person that holds her to humanity.**

**Goodbyes & Fire trucks**

Xander turns as he hears her, though she is silent, and though he knows it's her. He smiles even though he knows what's to come. Maybe he smiles not despite what's about to happen, but because of it. He's ready. He's known this day would come, and he was always ready.

"Hey there, lady. Decided to start with me this time, huh?" Xander says it not afraid, not questioning. He's still smiling.

Willow doesn't say anything, because what is there to say? She knows anything she says will only make it worse, make it hurt more, or maybe less, and she can't decide which one would be more horrible. But she knows she must say something, so she says, in a whisper that seems earth-shatteringly loud:

"Yes."

He nods, as if to say, anything else?

"You're the only one-"

"Standing between you and true darkness? Come on, Will, can't you be more original?" Xander finishes for her, giving her a bit of his boyish chuckle. He laughs at the cheesiness of the line, even though it's exactly right. He knows he had been, still is, the only thing holding her down, keeping the world away, that she could easily take.

Willow lets out a laugh. Not because it's funny or she's amused by him, but because she owes it to him. Because she feels she must comfort her best friend in his death, his death at her hands. At the thought, she laughs again, this time at her own redundancy.

"So this is how it ends." Xander isn't upset about his end, nor is he surprised. He's been waiting. He's always been waiting for her, because somehow he knew that this is how he would end.

"No. This is how it begins."

Xander thinks she's right, and he doesn't wish she was wrong. He won't beg and he won't cry, because he knows that this time it's happening.

He smiles again, and shows a glimpse of young, boyish, Xander. "I love you."

Willow lets out a snort. "You know that won't stop me this time."

Xander reaches out and places a hand on her vein-speckled cheek. "That's not why I said it."

She shudders at the feeling of his hand against her, as if it reminds her of her humanity, of her vulnerability. He draws it back. Xander stands up tall and adjusts himself. He fixes his shirt so that the hem is even, and he makes sure his eye patch is placed just right. He thinks he'd like to have some dignity and class in death, perhaps more than he had in life.

"Okay, I'm ready," he says, and he means it. "We gonna get this boogie down?"

"No."

"No? No, we're not gonna boogie down? You know the boogying is a metaphor for killing Xander, right?" he asks, and he's amazed at his ability to joke at his own death. Xander isn't excited or relieved by the idea that he might live, only confused and inquisitive.

"I mean not yet. I have to tell you something."

"Oh?" Xander says, raising the brow above his patch. "And what deep, dark secret do you have? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I know 'em all." He lowers his voice and puts his hand in front of his mouth as if to tell a secret. "Lesbian witch with a dark side?" he says jokingly.

Willow shakes her head, her dark hair moving slowly about her shoulders.

"I started the fire."

"What…" Xander looks at her with confusion.

"Your birthday."

And Xander smiles. His lone eye is filled with tears, and he smiles. He laughs and he looks at her, and he laughs.

"Thank you," he says, but he's not sure if he's thanking her for the fire or if he's thanking her for letting him have this one last perfect memory of her. And he hugs her. He holds her in his arms even though he knows he shouldn't, even though he knows she's not the same, and maybe it means nothing to her. And he cries not because he doesn't want to die, or because he does, but because he's somehow happy. He's happy he goes this way, and it's right somehow. He expects her to pull away, but he feels her arms snake around him and grips him fiercely. He knows that a part of her wants him to live, but he knows that the hurt inside of her is much stronger than that. And more importantly, he knows that he is the only way to open it.

"I love you, too," Willow whispers into his chest, muffled by his obnoxiously-patterned shirt and maybe even some tears. Xander smoothes his hand over her hair and wishes it were red so he could die looking at his best friend, his real best friend. She pulls her head away from him to look into his eye.

She smiles. Not a happy one, not excited for what she is about to do, but perhaps a solemn smile. A sad smile. The smile you give someone to say 'it's okay' even though you both know that it's not.

"And I'm sorry."

She presses the palm of her hand to his chest, as Xander closes his eye. The light fills him and he feels it, oh god, he feels it. He feels the light pouring out of him, shooting through his veins, and he somehow sees the light beams shooting out from him, from his eye socket, from his ears, and then from his heart. And it hurts, and it's warm, and somehow, it's right.

And then the light stops.

And then she is alone.

**Feel free to post comments, suggestions, and feedback (negative or positive). Stay tuned for more snippets.**


	2. Underneath the Willow Tree

**Author's Note: **Hey, guys! I don't know if anyone's taken an interest in these stories, but here's my next one. This is told from Willow's POV as she remembers Tara. Her memory becomes so vivid that it's as if Tara is right there beside her. This is a conversation that I imagine them having, and whether Tara's soul is really there or it's just Willow's imagination is entirely up to you. Enjoy!

**Underneath The Willow Tree**

Willow Tree. She called me that once.

There's one out back. Sometimes when I sit under it, I talk to her. And sometimes, when the trees whisper and the wind blows, I can imagine her answering.

I feel her hand wrapping around mine, her fingers snaking through mine. Maybe I can't feel it...but I at least remember what she used to feel like. I imagine that she's here now, and she's holding me.

_Tara._ I whisper her name, and it slides out without thinking about it. Her name makes me smile, as my eyes close, because if I keep them open I might remember that she's not really here, that she's gone.

_Hey._

And I don't know what to say, because there is so much to say, and nothing at all.

"Tara. I miss you."

I imagine her hand squeezing mine, reassuring me that I don't have to miss her-she's right here, with me. Always with me. Always.

"...Does it hurt?" I ask, because it's the question that never goes away, and I hope I know the answer, and that the horrible thoughts inside my head are wrong.

_Oh, no, no, not anymore_. I imagine her shaking her head, that look on her face, that look of concern that she'd get.

_It hurt at first, not so much the physical plane...the astral plane...it hurt. For a while. But it doesn't hurt anymore. _

"Because it hurts for me. Oh, god, baby, it hurts so much." I feel myself blubbering and I feel ridiculous, but I take comfort in knowing that she is within me and knows exactly what I am feeling. "And I miss you so much, baby…"

_Do you think about me a lot?_

"I never stop. Never. I don't stop for a single second."

I imagine her becoming quiet, and us just sitting together underneath the willow tree, because I'm worried of what comes next. I'm worried that anything I imagine us saying could make everything worse, somehow make this pain greater, if that's possible. Then she whispers. And this time, I'm not even imagining it. I can hear her, over the wind, or maybe in the wind, the willow tree speaking to me.

_Just so you know, I still am._

"Still am what?" I ask, confused, not just because I don't know what she means, but also because I don't understand how I'm hearing her, these words that I'm not even coming up with.

_Yours._

The tears are there, and I squeeze my eyes shut and wish things were different. Because I want her back. I want to trade the world to get her back, but it's not mine to trade. I tell myself I should be allowed to have her back, but I know I don't deserve to have her.

I feel her tense in my grasp, and she draws her fingers back.

_Kennedy's waiting. _

And then she's gone.

**Please feel free to leave comments, constructive criticism, advice, or even requests for future Snippets. And please subscribe to receive alerts for future updates! Thanks for reading. **


	3. the Blood on the Blouse

**Author's Note: ** Hey, readers! How are you? This is a new snippet, and I really hope everyone enjoys it!

**The Blood On The Blouse**

Willow pulls the dresser away from the wall. The antique piece of wood creaks as it's pushed along the floor. She reaches her hand behind it and looks for the rolled up shirt that she keeps wedged between the dresser and the wall. The shirt she pulls out every now and then to remember. Or to forget. She's not quite sure why she keeps it hidden or why she needs it, and won't tell anyone about it, not even Buffy or Xander. All she knows is that she needs it to stay sane, to stay good, to be Willow, and to know who that is.

She fumbles around behind the dresser before giving up and flicking on the lights. She pulls the dresser farther away from the wall.

It's not there.

"Kennedy?" Willow cries frantically. Afraid.

"What's wrong?" Kennedy asks, her brows knit together, as she enters the room and stands in the door frame.

"Did you do something with a blouse that was behind this?" Willow tries to mask the panic and fear and sadness in her voice. She doesn't want Kennedy to see. To see how weak she is, or to see why she pulls the dresser from the wall to touch a blood-stained blouse.

"You mean that white top that was covered in blood splatters?" Kennedy asks, her voice laced with confusion. "I found it back there when I was cleaning."

Willow closes her eyes to calm herself. She takes a deep breath.

"What did you do with it?"

Kennedy crosses her arms defensively. "What do you mean, 'what did I do with it'? I washed it. It was covered in blood. I figured it was from our last Scooby-gang hurrah, and it fell back there."

Willow feels the anger bubbling up inside her. She washed it. That blouse was the last piece of her she had left. In the world. The last time Willow wore the peasant-style blouse had also been the first. She had bought it far before then, but considering the circumstances, felt the blouse was too happy-looking to wear. Funny, Willow recalled, coming from the girl with hula girls and daisies hanging from most of her clothing. But she had worn it that day because she was happy. Everything was right again and it was perfect. But it wasn't.

So now she keeps the blood-splattered blouse, with a blood-inked map on the back, rolled behind the dresser. Because it's what helps her remember and forget all at the same time. It makes her remember who she is, what she's done. Who she loved. No, Willow corrects herself. Loves. Because she still loves her, the one who's blood decorates Willow's beloved blouse. She still loves her and she won't stop. And she hates to say it. She hates to look at Kennedy and know that it's not perfect. She still loves her. She always will.

And that's why she keeps the shirt hidden, unwashed and just for her. To feel close to her and to remember her in her last moments, their last moments. The last moment that the world meant something.

Willow sees Kennedy reenter the room before she even realizes she left. Kennedy has the blouse in her hand. Washed and folded. Neat and perfect, blood gone, and perfectly white. It's clean. It's wrong.

Kennedy hands the blouse to Willow, puzzlement still present on her face. "I'm sorry if I did something wrong. I just figured I'd do something nice and wash your blood out."

Willow holds the shirt in her hands. She holds it up and allows it to fall unfolded. She examines the shirt and remembers how pretty she used to think it was. And how pretty it is now. She thinks to herself that maybe now she can wear it again.

And then she laughs at that. At the idea that she could ever wear it again. That she could wear it again and not think of her, of them, of who she was and what she became. That she could ever wear the blouse and not feel crazed, evil, dirty, wrong. That she could ever wear the shirt and kiss Kennedy and not be thinking of her. She could never wear it and not feel it crawling under her skin, in her blood, in every inch of her, the evil. The pain. The anger. The magic. She could never wear it and not remember it. The quick noise and the splatter of blood. Holding her in arms and begging. Begging for something she had no right to beg for. But begging for something she owed her. Something she needed but wasn't allowed to have. She could never wear the blouse and not feel the tracing of a map against her back, or imagine her own skin being ripped from her body in a single, quick, motion. Willow could never wear it.

Willow folds the blouse again. She stands up and opens the top drawer of the dresser. She places the shirt neatly on top of a pile of numerous other things. And then she silently slides the drawer closed. Kennedy stands in the doorway, unmoving, still unsure of what is wrong or why she feels overwhelmed with guilt.

"It wasn't my blood."

**I hope everyone enjoyed this snippet. I love getting comments, questions, suggestions, or constructive criticism. Please feel free to review or PM me and let me know what you think, or tell me what you'd like to see in the next snippet. Always open to ideas and suggestions. Thanks for reading!**


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